A word and blow was then enough:
Such honour did them prick,
If you but turn'd your cheek, a cuff;
And if your a—se, a kick.
Look in their face, they tweak'd your nose;
At ev'ry turn fell to't;
Come near, they trod upon your toes;
They fought from head to foot.
Of these the duke of Lancastere
Stood paramount in pride;
He kick'd, and cuff d, and tweak'd, and trod
His foes and friends beside.
Firm on his front his beaver sate;
So broad, it hit his chin;
For why? he deemed no man his mate,
And fear'd to tan his skin.
With Spanish wool he dy'd his cheek,
With essence oil'd his hair;
No vixen civet cat so sweet,
Nor could so scratch and tear.
Right tall he made himself to show,
Though made full short by God:
And when all other dukes did bow,
This duke did only nod.
Yet courteous, blithe, and debonnair,
To Guise's duke was he:
Was ever such a loving pair?
How could they disagree?
Oh, thus it was: he lov'd him dear,
And cast how to requite him:
